


South

by theholyjuggernaut



Category: Spies In Disguise (2019)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Crying, Depression, Drugging, Friendship, Gen, Guilty Lance Sterling, Hints of Asexual!Walter, Hospitals, Hurt, Hurt Walter Beckett, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Lots of pain on Walter's part, Mental Health Issues, Near Death Experiences, PTSD, Physical Abuse, Presumed Dead, Rape Aftermath, Sexual Assault, Sickness, Swearing, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Whump, and lots of guilt on Lance's
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23558320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theholyjuggernaut/pseuds/theholyjuggernaut
Summary: All Lance can do is watch and struggle so hard his wrists bleed.
Relationships: Walter Beckett & Lance Sterling
Comments: 26
Kudos: 180





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Spies in Disguise last night, and I have naturally succumbed to the urge to hurt my favorite characters.
> 
> (Look at the tags before you start reading. It gets pretty dark so don't say I didn't warn you. If this isn't your cup of tea, then just drink something else.)

When things go south, Lance notes, they  _ really _ go south. 

And there’s nothing you can do once you’re in a nosedive – nothing you can do but wait and watch and brace for impact. 

After being transformed back into himself, Lance would like to say things were all good now, but he knows better. He should have known better, he’s Lance Sterling.

Because now his weird, malnourished, unbelievably naive for a MIT graduate 21-year-old  _ accomplice _ (according to the United States government) Walter Beckett is gone. 

He’s gone for good.

Like  _ never gonna wake up again  _ kind of gone. Like  _ blown up into a billion little pieces of ash and sinking to the bottom of the North Sea _ kind of gone. And it’s all Lance’s fault. 

It took a few agonizingly long minutes of silence after Killian left him on that awful balcony for it to really sink in. For Lance to understand that what happened right before his eyes wasn’t an illusion, it wasn’t one of Killian’s tricks, it was reality. Which was considerably so much worse. 

Walter Beckett is dead because of him, and there’s no bringing him back.

The scene repeats endlessly in his head – the fear choke-holding him as he tries to reason with Killian, demanding Walter mercy from the man who went against everything Lance stood for, and when there is nothing left to do, shamelessly  _ begging _ Killian not to kill his friend. 

He tried and he failed, he failed, _ he failed.  _

It was almost like one of those out-of-body experiences all the hippies went on about. When you’re outside looking in; Lance staring into his own eyes, burning with helplessness as the explosion blasts a massive wave into the sky. As Walter dies because of him. Burnt to a crisp.

_ Maybe he wasn’t awake, _ Lance thinks in a desperate attempt to make himself feel better.  _ Maybe he was too drugged up to feel any pain.  _

But it’s all fake. He knows what happened. 

Kind, brave Walter Beckett returned to rescue him from the mess he got himself into. To pull him out of his own failures, from Kyrgyzstan, but ultimately Walter became one of Lance’s worst failed missions yet. 

Walter had been too physically weak to save himself, probably because Lance fucking  _ drugged  _ him. 

He must have been so scared. 

Disoriented and struggling to keep his eyelids up, expression brimming with betrayal, just as he was when Lance condemned him. And just that mental thought makes Lance want to close his eyes and never wake up. 

Who will he have to break the news to if he gets out of this stupid villain lair? Assuming all his coworkers will be alive after all this. Lance knew of no one. Wendy Beckett was long dead – heroically shot in the line of duty – Walter’s dad was God-knows-where, and he had no friends besides Lovey the pigeon and just recently, Lance Sterling. 

_ And I worked out just great for him, didn’t I? _ he thinks bitterly. 

Lance feels a surge of tears coming on. 

_ If Killian is watching, which he probably is, the guy’s probably getting off from this. _

Lance doesn’t care now, especially because Walter is dead, his coworkers are going to be dead, and soon Lance will suffer the same fate. 

A deep, noxious abyss in his heart – opened the second he saw that awful explosion – spits out at him. 

_ You deserve it. For everything you did. _

For killing people, no matter how bad they were. For firing Walter and forcing him to run from the authorities with him. For becoming so attached to that adorable 21-year-old that he drugged him and practically sent him to his death. What a way to show affection. 

God, he couldn’t even wipe his face, now salty with tears. That’s just  _ perfect _ . 

And no better time to hear Killian’s minatory footsteps coming up behind him. 

_ Tap, tap, tap… _

Lance listens to the subtle whir of the man’s robot hand, picturing its luminous blue glow, the smug breath of laughter curving around his sallow lips. And he can hear the words before Killian even says them.

“Feeling a little down in the dumps, Agent Sterling? Or should I call you Lance? I feel like we’re there.” 

Lance says nothing, hanging his head with clenched eyes. He tries to level his breathing a bit, to paddle his way through the turgid whitewater in his stomach, to save what little pride he has left by making Killian understand that he  _ hasn’t  _ broken him, even though every fiber in Lance’s being is screaming at him that he has. 

Killian’s breath hits Lance’s ear, sharp and slithering, like the complacent hiss of a snake that has trapped its dinner. 

“Not feeling very chatty, are we? Well, I’ve got a nice,” Killian pauses, chuckling balefully, “ _ little _ surprise for you, Lance.”

Killian’s footsteps recede, following a thump and something being dragged across the hard floor. A muffled groan of pain that definitely is  _ not _ Lance’s captor catches his ears, and the agent quickly realizes that the something is not a something at all. 

It is some _ one _ . 

_ I can’t watch this guy kill anybody else, _ Lance thinks gravely, soon recognizing the futility of that statement. That’s what Killian wants. He’s trapped, he’s useless, he’s so fucking  _ obtuse –  _ why didn’t he just listen to Joy? __

_ Wait for backup _ , the director of H.T.U.V would warn him, then he’d reply with something climactic and witty, and it’s hitting him now like an eighteen wheeler chock-full of cement. 

He’d been stupid. Reckless.

_ Why did I rush in like that? _

This time was different, he remembers  _ feeling _ that it was different, and now nobody knows where he is and his only backup just got blown to bits.

_ This is my punishment, and I’m going to be alive to suffer through it.  _

Lance speaks up for the first time in what feels like centuries. His voice cracks at the end, echoing the brittle sounds of his heart. 

“Just stop it, man. Please…” 

“Oh, he speaks!” Killian crows, trudging closer. He’s still dragging someone, his voice still the same gritty hiss, his hand still making those awful metallic creaking noises, his sartorial elegance still contrasting that ugly, sadistic nature inside. 

“And  _ why _ , Lance,” Killian hums his name, “do you think you can change my mind?” 

Lance feels a slight burn in his stomach, the one that used to be his drive, his passion. It’s now a dying hearth, but it’s still there, still glowing. So he speaks up. 

“Everyone can change,” the agent answers firmly. He furrows his eyebrows and grits his teeth. “Walter taught me that.” 

“Walter?” Killian asks nonchalantly, like he didn’t just blow up the 21-year-old in front of both their eyes, and Lance hates him fiercely for it. “I do admit your gangly accomplice is rather difficult to anticipate. He’s certainly troublesome to kill. But first, I want to have some fun before I do.” 

Lance lifts his head and he’s still facing the ocean, waves crashing tremulously as if they too were afraid of Killian’s shadow lurking in the darkness. 

_ What’s this psycho on about?  _

Suddenly, his chair is being turned around, scraping the floor loudly, and he’s facing something he can’t comprehend. There’s a skinny figure on the ground, sprawled out unconscious, arms bound tightly by a thick metal rope. 

Lance doesn’t know how to breathe again, and he realizes that he’s feeling relief; such a heart-stopping, headache-inducing relief that is soon stolen away by dread because Killian is going to do something and Lance doesn’t want to find out what.

“Walter!” he still shouts, unable to restrain himself. 

There’s something wet and crimson flowing down Walter’s head. Lance reminds himself that he made a noise earlier, so he’s alive. Walter is alive, and that’s all that matters. 

Killian nudges the brunet’s head with the tip of his shoe, frowning farcely. 

“Poor lad got knocked out cold.” He raises his hands in mock surrender. “I gotta say: they’re nifty, those gadgets of his. Prevented him from being blown up, washed him ashore. But then again, it wasn’t really about the  _ killing _ .” 

The implication of  _ I want you to suffer  _ rolls through the air like a heavy, blinding fog. 

“Walter, you gotta wake up, man. Come on,” Lance tries, ignoring Killian’s amused chuckle. 

_ Why did I drug him, I shouldn’t have drugged him, then he’d be conscious and– _

Killian is walking away, tucking his glowing robot arm behind his back, sipping the champagne in his human hand as Lance pleads with his unconscious friend. He laughs loudly and disappears behind the corner. But Lance can still hear what he says next.

“Keep it up, Lance. The sooner he wakes, the sooner we can have some fun.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The longer Lance calls out to Walter, the more he loses hope. But as long as he’s got air in his lungs and working vocal chords God knows he’s gonna  _ holler _ . 

So he does. And he does. And he does. 

And Walter still isn’t waking up. 

It’s a real nasty looking head injury. Walter’s probably in for a painful concussion when he comes around. But something in Lance is selfish. All he wants to do is talk to his friend – who’s  _ alive  _ – and maybe wrap him in the biggest hug he’s ever laid on anybody ever. He’ll deny it later, though. 

Maybe.

His pride took a nosedive the minute Walter exploded, so Lance isn’t too eager to dismiss himself some comfort right now. 

After about thirty dreadful minutes of hearing his own voice, Walter finally groans and tugs against his bindings. Lance smiles widely, some confidence returning to him. 

“ _ A-hah! _ I knew you’d wake up, man!” 

The agent shakes his head, shoulders quivering. “Oh,  _ oh _ , you had me for a minute there. Or thirty,” he adds, voice weak. As if it had been grated like some cheese for half an hour. 

Walter still says nothing, and Lance watches as he groggily tries to wrap his fingers around the metal rope restricting his arms. His eyes stay closed, and that just looks so  _ wrong _ to Lance.

Hell,  _ everything’s _ wrong. 

“Walter? You can hear me, right? How many fingers am I holding up?” Lance pries. 

Walter opens one eye with what looks like a herculean effort, lifts his neck up off the ground with a pained grunt, and squints hard at Lance in the chair across from him. He rolls his eye, closes it, and lets his head rest back on the cold floor. 

“None,” Walter mumbles.

Lance nods in approval, still rather put-off by Walter’s current state. “All right. So we’re getting somewhere.”

“We’re not,” Walter exhales softly, tugging harshly on his bindings this time, “going  _ anywhere _ .” 

He groans, gritting his teeth. “Ow, my  _ head _ .” 

“Yeah, pretty sure Robocop conked you out.”

“How are we...” Walter trails off, sounding like he’s gonna pass out again. He gulps and inhales shallowly. “How are we gonna get out of – of here?” 

“Working on it.” 

“Just – just sittin’ there, Secret Agent,” the brunet whispers. 

Lance purses his lips and tugs against his wrist restraints. Looking at his friend’s battered body, listening to his exhausted voice, Lance realizes that he doesn’t feel like lying to Walter, not after everything that’s happened. 

“Okay, I’mma level with you, Walter. I don’t think I can get us out of this alone. I’m sorry.” 

_ I’m sorry for drugging you. I’m sorry that you got blown up. I’m sorry for everything.  _

Walter sighs in response. Lance persists.

“I need your help. Killian’s gonna come back any minute and–”

A shadow emerges from the dark hall behind them. 

“Plotting against me, boys? Why, I never…” 

Lance shuts his mouth, settling a baleful gaze on Killian as he approaches. 

“Oh, that’s scary.  _ Real _ scary. Do you work on that in the mirror every morning?” The man taunts, using his robot arm to brush some dust particles off his shoulder. 

“Let us go  _ right now, _ ” Lance demands, eyes still glued to Killian. He’s not gonna stop staring until this fool breaks. 

“No,” Killian replies curtly. “I’m putting off destroying all your little agent friends in lieu of this – this  _ party  _ of ours.” 

“Look, man. I’m sorry about Kyrgyzstan. I really am. But this? This ain’t gonna change nothing.”

“You mean: all the people you killed – my friends that were practically  _ family _ – aren’t coming back, so I should just, hmm...  _ stop?”  _

Dread wells up inside Lance as Killian steps forward, looming over Walter. 

The 21-year-old is still working at the bindings to no avail, eyes closed and lips pursed in concentration. The agent doubts Killian let him keep any gadgets on his person after his near-death escape. So that’s not an option. Walter’s just as helpless as Lance. 

“Just stop it! Please, I’m – I’m begging you here.” 

And even though Lance is out of Pigeon Mode, and the slo-mo vision is gone, it still feels like the world has flipped on one side and time has no meaning. 

Because Killian has dragged Walter to his feet by his neck, and Walter’s making this helpless gasping noise, and his hands are tied and his eyes are lidded but still so full of fear, and that blue robot claw is pulled back like he’s gonna – like he’s –

“WALTER!” Lance screams. 

Killian pauses, arm still held back.

He looks at Lance, left eye glowing unnaturally – and not because of the cyborg-ness, it’s something more threatening, something more terrifying – with his fingernails digging into Walter’s neck, and Lance can already see the bruises blooming on his skin. 

“I’ll make sure you never forget this.” 

Lance is more afraid now than he was on that balcony, facing the North Sea ocean waves that ripped Walter away from him. He can’t speak, like he’s choking on his own spit and nothing’s coming out, like one of those dreams where you’re running in place from the monster in your closet. 

And Lance isn’t going to wake up because no matter how hard he tries to deny it, this is reality. 

This is what life is gonna be.

Killian turns back to Walter and viciously shoves him into the wall. The glowing blue screens rattle from the impact, and Lance can see Walter’s face – his eyes are open now, fully open, and he looks the way he did in Venice. Struggling from something that’s inevitable and terrifying and out to get him. This time there aren’t any pigeon hordes, there aren’t any breadcrumbs, and Walter is trying to get his drugged-up body working at the pace his brain is right now.

As Killian claws at his torso with those awful metal fingers, Walter writhes in pain and whimpers, “Please, don’t–” 

That somehow kickstarts Lance’s idle brain, and now he’s shouting furiously at Killian, yelling obscenities and gnashing his teeth like a wild animal. 

He’s ignored. Like he simply doesn’t exist. And  _ boy _ that pisses Lance off. 

After Killian tears into Walter’s hoodie, the man throws his friend to the ground again, and Lance watches the blood seep from the claw marks on his torso. Walter cries out in pain, voice too raspy and exhausted to form words, and his cerulean eyes clench shut like he’s trying to wake up from some lurid hallucination. 

Lance isn’t sure what of all  _ this  _ to focus on, because each thing is worse than the next and every time he turns away from one awfulness, his eyes land on something worse. 

Like the blood. 

Walter’s just so – so… so  _ petite _ that Lance concludes he can’t afford to lose any blood. And his torso is practically three times smaller than his own; he’s too fragile, too destructively kindhearted to go through something like this, and just the fact that Killian is taking advantage of someone lesser than himself and drugged up to boot makes Lance sick. 

He’s the one who’s supposed to be fighting. Secret Agent Lance Sterling, for fuck’s sake...

_ Just take me, take me instead! Please!  _ his mind screams. 

His wrists hurt. He’s been pulling at them nonstop since this started. It does absolutely nothing, but at least he’s doing  _ something _ at all. Maybe the pain makes it more bearable, which is ironic, really.

Because his pain isn’t going to change what’s happening. 

Killian’s like a rabid dog amped up on heroin. 

Walter’s on the floor writhing beneath the man as his flannel shirt is ripped to pieces, his chest a mangled mess of blood and damaged skin. With each scream his voice gets more raw – he’s sobbing between gasps for air – and Killian couldn’t care less. He doesn’t care how much shouting Lance is doing, how there are tears streaming down his face mirroring Walter’s, he doesn’t care, doesn’t care, doesn’t care…

God, he’s just a guy from the tech lab. He’s not supposed to be here. This isn’t in his job description. 

_ Maybe if I didn’t fire him, he wouldn’t be suffering like this. Maybe if I hadn’t killed those people in Kyrgyzstan, Killian wouldn’t be hurting him.  _

“I’m begging you here! Leave him alone!” Lance hears himself scream from far, far away. 

He’s not in the chair as it happens; he’s floating above all three of them while Killian tears Walter apart, and all he can do is watch. All he can do is watch and struggle so hard his wrists bleed.

Part of Lance understands now just  _ why _ people kill. Because hell, he’s feeling downright murderous and wouldn’t feel a single drop of remorse if he was handed a gun and told to shoot right through Killian’s ugly-ass face. You probably wouldn’t even have to tell him.

Lance is breaching his limit, somehow morbidly curious about just what’ll happen to his sanity if this keeps up. 

But Killian does something he’s not expecting. 

He stops. 

He’s just staring at Walter – who’s wheezing and crying and unable to stop the blood flow because his hands are fucking tied together – like a second-grader admiring his art project and just can’t wait to show Mommy when he gets home. He looks real proud of himself. 

Lance is speechless. Partially because his voice hurts so damn bad and partially because he’s afraid that if he says anything it’s all just gonna start up again and never stop. 

He should’ve known better about, well… about  _ everything _ . 

Because now Killian’s flipping Walter over like he weighs nothing because he  _ does  _ and there’s the clink of a belt being undone and  _ fuck _ , Lance can’t watch this – he can’t do this anymore. 

“I’ll do whatever you want, man, just stop it!” he cries hoarsely, unashamed of the tears streaming down his cheeks. 

Killian pauses, tilts his head Lance’s way. 

He grins sharply and there’s a poison in his eyes, something lethal, something sick. Walter’s trying to roll onto his side and he somehow looks more terrified than Lance is right now. Killian grabs the brunet’s chin with his human hand and laughs like it’s the punchline to one very long, painful, drawn-out joke. 

“This is what I want, Agent Sterling.”

* * *

  
  
  


There’s a little corner in Lance’s mind where he likes to go on occasion. 

Well, he likes to go because he  _ needs  _ to, sometimes. 

For example: December, 2010. All fifteen hostages inside a Serbian base H.T.U.V was meant to infiltrate got shot to death just an hour before they arrived. 

Afterward, Lance learned how to deal better. Everybody did, really. 

The grief that hung in the air around headquarters had been almost tangible for weeks after the incident. And everybody learned how to work around the stress, the pain, the regret. 

Lance just took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought of something better. 

But how can he  _ now?  _

Lance can neither breathe nor rip his eyes away from the scene playing out in front of him like some fucked up TV episode that was never aired because it was too graphic, too obscene, too violent. 

He stopped screaming a while ago; he knew it was no use. But then again, maybe Killian wanted him to – maybe if he screamed enough the man would finally stop trying to get a reaction out of him. 

And Walter…

Walter’s in some kind of catatonic state, eyes wide and unblinking at the far corner of the room while Killian takes what he wants from him. There are silent tears leaking down his face, and even in the dim light of the room Lance can see. He watches each and every one fall as they’re burned into his memory. 

Lance wants to call out to Walter, tell him everything’s gonna be okay even though this situation has escalated so much he’s not sure either of them will ever be able to climb back down from it. He’s also afraid his voice will drag Walter out from whatever mental protection he’s put between himself and Killian. 

If he does that, Walter might just shatter _. _

Killian took off the 21-year-old’s restraints fifteen minutes ago. Now the older man’s got Walter’s hands pinned above his head on the floor, and even if he let go Lance isn’t sure he’ll be able to get up anyway. 

Walter is flinching with each movement, trying to hold back his whimpers. This is the same kid who said there’s good in everybody, that every person is worth saving. Lance bets Walter would have given Killian a second chance. 

But again, Killian doesn’t care. He’s muttering lowly into Walter’s ears and Lance can’t hear the words but that lecherous, ruttish tone doesn’t leave much to be imagined. 

Lance feels sick deep down to his bones – he probably would have thrown up if his stomach wasn’t so empty already. It would be  _ something _ at least, rather than the nothing he currently feels like. 

Killian, for the first time since this nightmare started, lets go of Walter’s hands. He’s gripping his hips now, violent and aggressive, and for the first time since this nightmare started, Walter turns his head away from the corner he’s been staring at. 

Lance doesn’t know how he does it – how Walter reaches into the pocket of his discarded jeans and pulls out that coin. He doesn’t know, but it happens, and Killian’s too frenzied with lust to realize what’s happening before it’s too late. Walter presses it up against the man’s chest and clenches his eyes shut. 

_ Walter Beckett, _ Lance thinks brokenly,  _ is one hell of a genius.  _

The Inflatable Hug expands and ensnares Killian in a spherical prison. 

For a few seconds, there’s only silence.

Walter stares wide-eyed at Killian, like he’s too afraid to look away, too afraid to even breathe, and he looks down at his hand like he just grew three extra fingers.

“Walter,” Lance whispers, voice faint and lachrymose.

That seems to snaps him out of it. 

Walter balances his weight on his elbows and swiftly snags his pants off the floor. There’s blood dripping down Walter’s slender thighs, and Lance hastily rips his eyes away. 

He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve any of this. 

Walter tries to stand up, deliriously stumbling away from Killian, who’s hollering ferociously inside his prison. Lance thanks God it’s soundproof, neither of them want to hear what he has to say. The agent can imagine twenty different ways he could torture that plague on Earth, first by ripping out his tongue. 

Walter grips his stomach and limps forward once, a high sound of pain leaving his lips. His knees give way and he falls to the floor, both arms now wrapped around his torso. He’s trying to wipe away the tears dripping down his pale face to the bruised fingerprints on his neck, down to his bloodied chest. It’s going to scar, Lance knows, and Walter’s going to be reminded of today every time he looks in the mirror. 

Lance can’t bring himself to say anything; whether it be  _ I’m sorry _ , or  _ You must hate me, _ or  _ Let me help you.  _

Walter shuffles over to Lance’s chair, eyes carefully fixed on the ground. 

“Walter…” Lance whispers. 

The 21-year-old looks up at him, eyes red and puffy and so fucking  _ tired, _ then reaches for something by his feet. 

“He didn’t check my socks,” he mumbles. 

“What…?”

And it’s like the Holy Grail or something because Walter’s holding up a paperclip and Lance is speechless again because _ Walter Beckett. _

“You…” he breathes out. “You’re a genius, you know that?” 

Walter huffs, and Lance can tell he’s trying to laugh despite how much his chest aches.

“Yep.” 

It takes five stressful minutes to pick the lock on Lance’s left hand, and when the cuff finally opens Walter is gripping the side of the chair with white knuckles.

Lance wants to touch him – pat his shoulder or brush the unkempt hair out his eyes – but he does neither. Instead, he gently pries the paperclip from Walter’s shaking fingers and softly says, “I got the rest, Walter.”

The brunet slides down to the floor without a word and draws his knees up to his chest. Lance can’t hear him breathing – it’s so shallow he wonders if even Walter can hear it – and his body is still as a statue. The only thing assuring Lance that his friend is alive is the slight tremor in his shoulders as he buries his face in his arms. 

For the first time in Lance Sterling’s life, he feels lost. 

And it’s not like that mission in Alaska, winding through the endless mountains and getting snow in his eyes, nor is it like Vietnam when all the streets blended together in a dull blur of traffic until he couldn’t tell right from left. Somehow, both of those times he got where he wanted to go, but with this… 

With Walter – his  _ friend _ – looking half-past dead and so still,  _ too _ still for the person Walter Beckett is, well...

Lance doesn’t know what to do.

  
  


* * *

  
  


There must be a phone somewhere. 

Or anything, really, that doesn’t scream  _ evil villain tech _ . Killian practically destroyed anything of actual use in the facility, including communication devices. 

Finding one proves to be difficult, especially since Walter is unconscious on the floor and he’s breathing so faintly that Lance almost decides to do CPR on him. He’s glad he doesn’t, though, since he doesn’t want to cause Walter any more pain. Cracked ribs on top of all those chest wounds would not be a great show of friendship. 

The least he can do is give Walter his suit jacket as a pillow. 

_ Damn, does Killian not own any First Aid supplies? This fucking  _ fool _ , I swear– _

Lance searches the room like it’s a recon mission. Just a mission. That’s not Walter Beckett limp on the floor ten feet away.

Agent Sterling should have gone solo. 

But then again, he  _ shouldn’t _ have because look how this all turned out.

Eventually Lance finds something that looks like it could get a signal in one of the empty meeting rooms and hastily works through it. He doesn’t know Marcy’s number or even Joy’s number, but he does know the H.T.U.V emergency contact because he’s had to use it a few times. 

Lance Sterling, as good as he comes, is not immortal. Even he’s had to deal with a bullet wound or two. 

The crackling voice on the other end sounds familiar – but Lance can’t seem to put a face to it. He spends a lot of time walking around the facility and greeting passerby coworkers, so it’s possible he’s talked to this person before.

“H.T.U.V emergency contact, who’s speaking?”

“It’s Agent Sterling,” he croaks into the speaker. 

_ “What?” _ the guy shouts incredulously, and Lance really doesn’t have time for the whole  _ You’ve committed treason and you’re wanted for murder and a plethora of other crimes  _ shebang. 

_ I get it, let’s move this along ‘cause my friend is possibly dying over here. _

“Yeah, Lance Sterling. I’m at the, uh…” he blanks, suddenly feeling very nauseous, “Covert Weapons Facility. North Sea.” 

There’s a heavy pause.

“Are you… turning yourself in, Agent Sterling?” 

Lance grips the phone so hard he almost cracks it. 

“No! Yes…? It’ll make sense when you get here, I swear. Is Marcy around?” 

There’s a bit of rustling on the other end for a moment, and then a female voice comes through. He can practically see her smile brimming with contempt, contempt that should be directed at Killian and everyone who works for him, not for Lance, and certainly not for Walter. 

“Lance Sterling, who’d have thought? How are we supposed to know this isn’t a trap?”

She talks slowly, and Lance knows they’re tracing the call, because who  _ wouldn’t _ trace the damn call? The agent furrows his eyebrows in frustration and glances at Walter again. 

This stupid headache. 

“Well, I’mma be real with you, you  _ don’t _ . But just– just…” 

He wavers, tracking the steady up-and-down of his friend’s chest. 

“Please, Marcy,” Lance sighs. “Walter’s hurt, and he needs an ambulance pronto.” 

“Beckett?”

He glances in the Inflatable Hug’s direction. 

“Ey, and I should probably mention that we’ve got Killian – you know, Robo-hand? – tied up for you over here.” 

There’s silence on the line, and Lance is mentally begging that he was right about her, that she’s as good as Lance thinks she is, that she’ll go with him on this. 

But then, thank God, or thank  _ Marcy _ , she says, “All right, Sterling. We’re coming to you. Don’t try anything funny.” 

Lance doesn’t have the energy to quip back with anything witty or sarcastic, mostly because he can’t take his eyes off Walter. He feels like his lungs are filling with ocean water. He can’t let Walter die after everything that’s happened. 

And Lance wants to make it up to his friend somehow, but he knows nothing is going to fill the void in his chest after what happened today. 

“Just hurry,” Lance whispers.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The minute Marcy and her team show up, Lance is running at them with Walter in his arms. 

_Man, he really_ does _weigh nothing._ _Better put some meat on his bones when… well,_ when _._

First, they’re getting out of here and never coming back.

Marcy, Eyes, Ears, and a squad of other agents have their weapons drawn, which makes sense, Lance supposes. Safety first, and all that. But some part of Lance’s brain doesn’t really care if their guns are pointed right at his face, if they shoot him. 

All that matters right now is getting Walter somewhere that doesn’t scream _Hell_ _on Earth._

Marcy’s hard stare softens into alarm as she gets her eyes on who Lance is holding. 

“That’s him!” Eyes exclaims, jutting a thumb in Killian’s direction. “Guy with the robot hand!” 

Ears lifts up his snapback for a better view. 

“Huh, guess Sterling was right all along.”

“Medics, get over here  _ now!” _ Marcy shouts, and she’s finally dropped the  _ taming a wild animal _ pose, so Lance sighs in relief and lets two people gently pull Walter out of his arms. 

The agent drops to his knees, heaving. 

Marcy joins him on the ground, a hand on his shoulder, and Lance  _ does _ care what she’s saying but it sounds like they’re both on an airplane with all the windows open. Lance decides to think of it as an apology:  _ Sorry for thinking you were on the wrong side, sorry we hunted you down like a criminal, sorry your friend is getting flown out to the ER because he’s just been viciously assaulted.  _

His ears strain for Walter’s quiet breathing even though he’s already being carried out of the facility. He wonders if he’s just been imagining it this whole time. 

The sound of clinking handcuffs as Marcy’s team drags Killian away or the ten phone calls being made in every direction aren’t really processing in Lance’s brain right now because Walter is safe, Walter is alive, and if he didn’t bring that damn coin in his pocket Lance doesn’t think Walter would have ended up safe  _ or  _ alive in any alternate scenario. 

Lance feels his insides twist at the thought. Killian was probably meaning to murder him once he had his “fun.” 

It’s all so wrong, he thinks. 

So massively fucked up that there’s nothing he can do but acknowledge how massively fucked up it is. 

It must have been a while since Lance is now being lifted off the ground by agency employees. Before he knows it, his eyes are rolling back into his head as a dark whirlpool encircles his vision. 

Finally, Lance sleeps. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After.

  
  


The ride to the H.T.U.V hospital wing is... Well, it’s a _ride_. 

Lance isn’t used to being luggage on missions. That spot is usually reserved for hostages or civilians, people the agency should remove so they can carry on with their jobs. But here he is, Lance Sterling, drifting in and out of consciousness so often it feels like he’s just been blinking slowly. 

It’s not his personal jet, for sure. The medic helicopter is windy and loud, and Lance kind of wants to punch one of the younger nurses because he keeps reading off his heart rate aloud every two minutes. 

Lance isn’t the person they should be worrying about, but Walter’s in a different helicopter and there’s nothing he can do but wait until they get home.

It’s hell. 

When they touch the helicopter pad, he immediately wants to throw up. Alas, there’s nothing in his stomach, so that leaves Lance in an uncomfortable, unsatisfying state of nausea. 

He pushes the medics away as he tries to steady himself – _I don’t need your help –_ and his knees are wobbling so much the slightest breeze could knock him over. 

The corners of his vision are becoming even more spotty and dark as he stumbles down to a hospital bed, and two sides of his brain are in an infuriating game of tug of war. Walter needs him, but there are doctors here. He wants to sleep, but what if something goes wrong again? 

There’s not much he can do but lay down and let someone in white bandage his wrists. 

Before he knows it, his head has fallen onto a soft pillow and it’s lights out. 

* * *

  
  


Joy and Marcy come to see Lance. 

It’s awkward, he thinks, as the two women stumble over an apology that is, while genuine, a bit half-assed. Joy assures Lance that he and Walter will be reinstated as employees of H.T.U.V. That is, if they want to come back, Marcy adds. 

Lance almost laughs at that, if the truth behind that little side comment weren’t so blaringly un-funny. 

The agent has to think about it hard: _Will Walter want to come back?_

After everything that’s happened, is that gangly little 21-year-old even going to want to _see_ Lance? He probably blames him, maybe even more than Lance is blaming himself. 

The two women leave as quick as they came, and as the director disappears out the door, Marcy rests her hand on the doorframe, picking at it absently, and says, “If you want to see Beckett, he’s in the room across from here.” 

Lance sighs in relief, glad that the words _critical condition_ or _terminal illness_ haven’t yet touched her lips. 

The woman turns to leave, but she catches herself with a foot out the door. Marcy doesn’t look at him, keeping a steady gaze on the tiled floor. 

“I’m sorry about Walter, Agent Sterling.”

_Me too_ , Lance thinks. 

  
  


* * *

When Lance walks over to Walter’s room, he knocks loudly. Just in case. 

This is the moment Walter’s supposed to say _Come on in, Lance!_ and they’ll talk and maybe shed a few manly tears together but in the end, everyone’s happy and things return to their natural order. 

But that doesn’t happen, and Lance isn’t expecting to see a face that’s obviously _not_ Walter barricading the door with a stern, sharp eyebrow prickling up at him. It’s one of the doctors – which is the limit to Lance’s knowledge – and he doesn’t seem too jazzed to see him. 

“Mr. Beckett isn’t taking any visitors at the moment, Agent Sterling.”

Lance waves his hands around, hating the way the hospital gown sleeves hitch up to his elbows. 

“Whoa, whoa, wait a second. I was _there_ , the whole time he… I just want to know if he’s all right–”

The doctor doesn’t budge. “You can, _after_ I’m done treating Mr. Beckett.” 

Lance feels his face scrunch up in frustration as he turns his heel back to his room. He looks down at his wrists. 

It’s nothing. 

Nothing compared to what Walter’s been through. When has being so flagrantly unharmed ever hurt this bad? 

Lance sits at the edge of his bed and waits, because there’s not much else he can do. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The minute Lance hears the door shutting nearby, he’s leaping out of bed and toward Walter’s room. 

He’s not sure what he’s expecting now, really. But he still braces himself before he knocks, cautious that even the slightest noise is somehow going to disrupt his friend.

“Walter?” he calls out gently. There’s no answer, so he turns the knob and walks inside.

Walter looks better, sort of. In a _just hit by a truck_ kind of way.

His skin is sallow under the LED hospital lighting, and the bruises on his body are much more stark compared to when Lance last saw him. Walter’s chest has been bandaged up underneath his shirt, and Lance’s mind trails back to that robotic hand, the metallic whir against flesh sounds, and– No, he can’t go back there. 

And there’s other places on Walter’s frail form that Lance worries about, but the agent doubts his friend wants to get into all that. In his shoes, Lance probably wouldn’t want to talk about it either. 

“Hey, Lance,” Walter says quietly from the edge of his bed, glancing up at the agent. 

There’s too much shit going through his head right now, too much he wants to say, to admit, to apologize for, but instead he opts for a croaked reply of, “Yeah, hey…” 

There’s silence as Lance sits down in one of the visitor chairs, glancing at his wrists again – God, he hates them so much – while Walter winces back into bed. 

Lance’s is almost halfway done convincing himself to just say _I’m sorry_ , but Walter interrupts his thoughts. 

“Have they found them?”

The agent blanks. “Found who?” he says slowly. 

Walter gulps slightly, and Lance can tell he’s trying to suppress the emotion in his voice because he’s been trying to do the same the second he walked into the hospital room. “Lovey and the others,” Walter supplies. 

_Oh, shit. Those birds haven’t even crossed my mind since we got outta there._

“I– I don’t know, Walter,” he says honestly, “I’m sorry.” 

Walter looks up at him with wide, tear-prickled eyes. 

It’s as if Lance just shot him in the neck all over again but a million times worse because nobody _,_ _nobody_ messes with those pigeons. If Killian killed them, that would be one more shitty thing on top of a mountain tall list of shitty things this week, and Walter doesn’t deserve any more of that on his shoulders. He doesn’t deserve any more grief. 

Lance’s heart stutters and he quickly adds, “For everything. For shooting you in your neck, for saying your gadgets were weird, for not listening to you. For what… for everything that went down after that.” 

Walter picks at the edge of the bleached hospital sheets. “S’not you’re fault, Lance.”

The agent doesn’t exactly know how to respond to that. Because it _is_ his fault. It’s always going to be his fault. But it all seems like too much so he shakes his head and says, “Well, it’s definitely not _yours_. So quit blaming yourself, man.”

Walter closes his eyes and leans his head back on the bedframe. He looks exhausted.

“Thanks for getting us out of there.” 

“ _You_ saved us. I’d still be stuck in that chair if it wasn’t for that big brain of yours.” 

Walter chuckles a little, and it’s so quiet and muffled Lance wonders if he just imagined it, but his friend is looking up at him with something akin to _hope_ and Lance swears to himself that he’s going to make Walter look like that every single goddamn day. It may not fix things, it may not reverse the horror that happened just 24 hours ago, but… it’s a start. 

Lance wants to stand up. He wants to walk over to Walter – who’s looking so small on that twin-sized hospital bed – and touch him. He wants to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and say _It’s okay,_ even when everything wrong with the world is telling him it’s not. He wants to wrap Walter up in the biggest hug known to man until he’s somehow squeezed all the pain out of his little body. 

He doesn’t, too immersed in the teeming silence, too glued to the uncomfortable hospital chair in the corner of the room to do anything less but _stay_. 

So Lance stays with Walter until they both fall asleep.

* * *

  
  
  


They get cleared to leave after lunch a few days later. Walter’s given a handful of medication, names of antibiotics Lance has never heard of, which makes him wonder about the extent of his friend’s injuries. He’s too guilty to ask, in the end. 

Two weeks of leave are handed to them on a silver platter. 

It feels like a fucking joke to Lance – H.T.U.V. couldn’t force them to do work if they tried. But Joy tells Lance and Walter that they are welcome back with their jobs intact whenever it feels appropriate, which puts a bit of salve on the wound that is their precarious choice of profession. 

It makes Lance think about Walter. He’s been doing that nonstop lately. 

They’re in Lance’s car, and for once he’s going the speed limit. The drive to Walter’s house is nice – it’s raining moderately but the sun still peeks out from the clouds like a timid child. 

Walter doesn’t say much. 

The agency had already come around to clean up the mess they made the week before, so everything looks all right from the outside. Lance is grateful for that.

Walter doesn’t have anything Lance can carry inside for him, and there’s no pigeon nestling in his unruly, chocolate locks of hair, two things that have the agent feeling awkward and out of place as he stands outside the door to Walter’s house.

“Thanks,” Walter says quietly, lips tugging upward. Although tired, his eyes have regained some of the light they had before, and Lance is speechless because they’re directed at him _._

He can hardly hear himself as he absently responds with, “Oh, yeah, yeah. No problem, man.” 

Walter doesn’t shut the door; he just looks at Lance, the smile on his face invariable and unfading. He shuffles his feet a bit and drops his gaze. “Do you, uh, wanna come in?”

Lance feels the tension in his shoulders wane. “Do you want me to?”

Walter’s smile glows in the misty sunlight. “Kinda, yeah.” 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The first time Lance had been in Walter’s house, he didn’t really pay much attention to anything other _than disappearing off H.T.U.V. radar_ , and _Lovey the pigeon._ His mind was a bit preoccupied to notice the finer details. 

It is, he’s gotta admit, pretty awesome. 

The house is spacious, much more room than one person needs – unless you’re Walter Beckett – and yet Lance feels weirdly snug as he wanders around. Like he’s being enveloped in a giant, warm hug, which sounds cheesy as hell but it’s the truth.

Walter’s got these multicolored lights hanging across the walls, and because none of the actual lights are turned on, it makes him feel like he’s in some cozy alien spaceship. And it fits Walter perfectly. 

“You want me to order pizza or something?” Lance calls out, panning his way across a wall of photos. Walter and his mother, laughing. A moment caught in time. Walter and his mother, surrounded by friends. And as the photos go on, Lance can pinpoint the exact moment when it became _only_ Walter. 

Damn, he’d been so young when she died. Lance feels guilt well up in his chest, a guilt that he doesn’t understand but is sweeping and powerful all the same. 

“I usually get Korean take-out,” Walter responds from somewhere unseen. “It’s just a few blocks away.” 

“Okay, I feel you, but is that what you _want?”_

There’s a pause, and Lance furrows his eyebrows.

“Yes?” 

“Don’t answer my question with another question, Walter.” 

“Sorry, sorry. Yeah, pizza’s great.” 

Lance rips his eyes away from his phone when he hears Walter grunt from across the house, and immediately forgets the Papa John’s employee on the line. He covers the speaker. 

“Walter, you good?”

There’s a short silence, and Lance can just imagine Walter trying to catch his breath, leaning up against the wall in pain.

“I – I’m gonna take a shower,” comes a muffled reply. 

The facade Walter has put up from the moment Lance walked into his hospital room is lifting ever so slightly. The poor guy sounds close to tears; of course he’s not all right, and damn him for ever believing that he was. 

God, he feels like a _guest_ and that’s not what this should be. Walter should be asking him for help. 

A door thumps shut and Lance is left with his thoughts again. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Approximately an hour and thirty eight minutes pass until Walter shuts off the shower. 

The warm water ran out an hour and fifteen minutes ago. 

It isn't like he’s _not_ freezing. 

Eventually his body becomes numb and he’s sitting in the corner of the bathtub with his arms gripping the sides like it’s a lifeboat in a massive seastorm. One minute turns into two after the water is shut off, and with each second he tells himself _I’m gonna get up soon_. But with each second passing, he cuts himself some slack. 

Walter is reserved to the bathtub where he’s alone and shivering. 

It’s sad, he supposes, because Lance is waiting patiently out there with warm pizza gone cold and Walter’s sitting in his bathtub trying to suppress any memories that return to him. 

He should get out. He really needs to. 

Walter doesn’t do any such thing, simply continues trapped in time, unable to move his body. His gaze reaches the clothes scattered on the tile across from the tub. 

Looking at himself just makes him feel sick now, so he keeps his eyes trained on the baggy hoodie and jeans Lance brought him before they left the hospital. Walter wonders if Lance knows how much he appreciated that, not having to come home in those standard white hospital clothes. 

Every time he looked at them, he was just reminded of that doctor’s hands, all the questions he asked. Walter complied, of course. He agreed to do the rape kit with everything it entailed. Walter – the MIT graduate – knew that his personal space being invaded was a much better option than potential STDs. 

Which is what he kept telling himself. 

That didn’t make it any less uncomfortable or invasive, and the exam ended with Walter wondering if it would actually make anything better. 

Killian was in jail now, undoubtedly. 

_Then why am I still so afraid?_

Maybe it’s because Killian will want to finish what he started at the Covert Weapons Facility, with Walter pinned to the floor and spinning metal digging into his flesh and that horrible moment of realization as Walter’s clothes were ripped off and–

Breathing suddenly becomes something he’s keenly aware of. 

He used to get anxiety attacks when he was in middle school, what with all the older faces looking down at him like he was a freak, a weirdo. Walter had just felt like a kid, one surrounded by sharks. A kid without his mother. 

So he counts his breaths, holding it to slow the rapid beating of his heart, and exhales. 

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. 

His brain reminds him Lance is still out there. Still out there with cold pizza and a warm smile that could put the sun to shame. That enough is motivation to get moving.

Walter doesn’t look in the mirror the entire time he’s in the bathroom. Orange bottles sit gravely on the counter beside his toothbrush. Medication can wait until after pizza; the symptoms weren’t the best thing in the world to deal with on a full stomach.

He lazily pulls a hairbrush through his brown locks, gurgles a mouthful of Listerine, and throws on his pajamas, which are really just another oversized hoodie with some stretchy black pants. 

Walter Beckett – ready to face the world right outside his bathroom door. A world that consisted of a large pepperoni pizza and Agent Lance Sterling. 

Things could certainly be worse. Walter doesn’t wish for better. 

* * *

  
  


Hearts and Soul is doing a rerun tonight, and Lance has never been so grateful for a cheesy Korean soap-opera in his life. 

Walter’s been in the shower for a long-ass time, and the pizza went cold an hour ago, but damn, if he can have one good thing happen tonight – it’s that show on the television. Well, he says television, which isn’t really accurate. It’s more like a floating screen that Walter probably designed so that he can bring it with him wherever he wants. 

Which he does, Lance thinks. 

Walter comes out of the bathroom looking, well... _dry_ . And that makes sense given the amount of time he allowed for the water to evaporate in there. If Lance didn’t know better, he’d say the guy in the oversized hoodie and leggings limping toward him was looking _refreshed_. 

Yeah, well, Agent Sterling knows better, and just the fact that Walter is limping is enough to fill him with the urge to strangle Killian until his eyes pop out. 

It also makes him feel loads and loads of sick, because… because…

Because every single injury on Walter’s body right now is his fault. 

Damn, he just wants to be able to take one of those oversized erasers to the bruises on his friend’s neck and make everything better. He didn’t think Killian would be so immoral as to do what he did, but he killed people, so Lance guesses that was a fault in his own judgement for assuming he wouldn’t be a fucking rapist. 

Walter comes over to the couch where Lance is and slowly sits down. 

“I wouldn’t peg you as a Hearts and Soul type,” Walter says, a bit of amusement seeping into his voice. He curls his legs up to his chest and eyes the pizza box, still closed. Lance hasn’t even checked if they got the order right, but who cares?

“I don’t know, man, maybe I’ll learn something.” 

Lance opens the pizza box and Walter looks at it like it’s a brick of gold, one he’s too afraid to steal. Lance says nothing and taps the screen to start the season one pilot.

The first few episodes of Hearts and Soul go by surprisingly fast, and Lance finds himself surprised by how quickly the plot sucks him in. It’s really not bad, despite the acting being overdramatic and unbelievable. Bakugyou, one of the main love interests, kind of reminds Lance of Walter. He can’t really pinpoint why. 

Walter nibbles on a slice of pizza, tearing up whenever anything even _slightly_ emotional goes down, and Lance knows he’s always like this with Hearts and Soul, but he can’t help feeling like it’s more than that. 

It probably is. He knows it is. 

By the time they reach the fifth episode, Walter’s eyes are fighting to stay open, and Lance’s brain is fried. He can only read so many subtitles in one night. 

“Are you leaving?” Walter asks from his nest in the corner of the couch, clutching his pillow. 

Lance was just going to throw the pizza box away, so he shakes his head. “I can if you want. You look wrecked, man,” he says, and immediately regrets it. 

Walter looks away, like he’s just been caught with a hand in the cookie jar or something. He lets go of his pillow and crosses his legs, hands digging into his ankles. “You can stay as long as you want. Honestly, I – I don’t get much company other than…” he trails off sadly. 

Lance is gonna find those birds if it’s the last damn thing he does. 

“Hey, all right. I can crash here on the couch if you’re cool with that?” he says, trying to appease that kicked puppy dog look on Walter’s face. He winces as he stands up, nodding at Lance with somewhat of a relieved expression. 

“Goodnight,” Walter says as he enters his bedroom, smiling lopsidedly. 

The night hadn’t gone so bad.

“Night, dude,” replies Lance.

Not bad at all. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Nightmares, according to every single modern scientist, are just a reaction. A reaction to sleep deprivation, stress, PTSD, et cetera, et cetera. 

Walter knows he’s suffering from sleep deprivation, stress, and PTSD, so it’s no wonder that he jolts out of bed at 4:00 AM, gasping for air like he’s never breathed before in his life. It takes at least two hours for him to calm down. Two hours scrolling through the internet and typing things like:

_How to stop nightmares? Solutions to PTSD?_ and _How to deal with trauma._

Walter’s been through this before, more than a decade ago. He’s had to deal with sadness and grief from an early age, but never on his own behalf. Right now, he’s not feeling the grief he did when a police officer came to his doorstep and told him and his grandma that Mom wasn’t coming home. 

He’s feeling pain for something that's temporary, something that happened to him – not to his mother – and he can’t help but feel like he’s being selfish. It’s just pain, it’s completely scientific. Walter, of all people, should be able to handle a little bit of suffering from time to time. 

But right now, all he can think about are Killian’s eyes, the bright cardinal red that bored into his soul as he shoved Walter onto his back and violated him. 

He took a psych course in college once, and one of the units had been about sexual abuse. It was brief – only a few days of work – probably because the professor didn’t seem too eager to linger on that sort of thing for too long, and if Walter was honest? Nobody in the class wanted to either. 

It was an uncomfortable subject. Mostly everyone handled it with professionalism, but there were always a few crude jokes here and there whispered in the back of the classroom. Fifteen-year-old Walter was glad he didn’t make friends with those people. 

He didn’t make friends at all, really. 

After that lesson, Walter found himself keenly aware of how easy it would be to physically overpower him. He wasn’t a tall kid at MIT. He didn’t have the build of most of the male students there – they were much older than him, anyway. Even now, he’s practically a twig – most men and women at H.T.U.V. would be able to throw him over their shoulder with ease. 

He still never thought anyone would go through with what Killian did to him. It was always a possibility, he knew, even to the strongest people out there. Nobody’s completely untouchable, everyone can be manipulated, everyone can be hurt, that’s just how life is. 

And life is currently not on Walter’s side. 

Still, he thinks about Lance in the living room crashed on the couch, and that makes it a little better.

Walter’s afraid to be alone right now, but he can’t just up and admit that to Lance’s face, no matter how much he prides himself on being honest with people. He likes to tell people how he feels. 

He likes being open, but what Killian did was like dropping cement into a well. 

Walter wants to climb out, but he’s slowly losing oxygen and can still feel hands clawing at his hips and blood dripping down his forehead. 

He’s never had sex before. If he’s honest, he’d never given it much thought as something other than a means of reproduction, and it wasn’t really at the top of his to-do list. 

What they – what _Killian_ did wasn’t sex, it was violent and malicious with intention to hurt both Walter and Lance in the process. It was lust-driven and power-hungry – it took bites out of Walter’s flesh like a tiger would to fresh meat. 

Even after reading articles online and taking classes and _research, research, research_ , he still can’t understand it. Because none of this is fair, breathing is a chore, and Walter’s getting tired of everything hurting all the time. It’s only been a week, and he’s already sick of how this is making him feel. 

Honestly, Walter’s not sure it’s ever gonna go away. It’s not like the bruises on his neck and hips which will fade with time. It’s more like the marks on his chest – the marks the doctor assured him will scar. This whole thing has been like a scar on Walter’s mind, and if he could rely on anything beforehand, it was his mind. Now he’s not even sure he’s got complete control over that.

Walter barely notices the time go by, and when he looks at his watch on his bedside counter, it’s nearing 7:30 AM. 

He hasn’t eaten anything other than half a slice of pizza since yesterday, but the medication is making his head ache and his stomach feel like jello, and just the thought of having to go to the bathroom sounds painful enough for Walter to suppress his hunger. 

God, this whole thing’s a mess. He wants Lovey to be here. 

Walter chugs a bottle of water and limps into the living room. Lance is nowhere to be seen.

The couch is still ruffled from where he and the agent had been sitting last night. Walter grabs his blanket, folds it, and tries to suppress the disappointment welling up in his heart. 

_Lance Sterling has better things to do than hang out with me,_ Walter thinks. 

It’s not surprising, he knows Lance can’t just be around twenty-four-seven, but… 

Walter wants him to be. Lance is the first friend he’s made in what feels like forever, disregarding Lovey, Jeff, and Crazy Eyes. He wonders if Marcy is his friend now, but it’s pretty apparent she thinks of him as just a kid and not a 21-year-old who’s able to transform humans into _not-humans_. 

He kind of feels like a kid these days, but at the same time he feels like he’s aged twenty years. It’s an odd contrast that upsets Walter sometimes because he should know who he is by now; at least, he _thought_ he knew who he was until a week ago. Now everything is scrambled and mismatched and he’s trying to fit together the pieces of the puzzle his life has become. 

And Lance is gone, which sucks. Walter really likes him. Maybe he should have just said it so the agent would take a hint to stay around longer. 

Walter lingers around his phone, conflicted. Something inside is telling him to just call Lance. He’s got so much on his mind. But then again, Lance is Agent Sterling, and Agent Sterling has a job that’s more important than Walter’s feelings.

The 21-year-old ends up curling up on the couch and closing his eyes. 

He doesn’t sleep.

  
  


* * *

  
  


There’s a knock on Walter’s door at 1:00 PM. 

“Ey, it’s Lance! I got something here you’re gonna like, man.” 

Walter’s little hummingbird heart slows down after he hears Lance’s voice. Irrational thoughts flood his mind. It could be Killian wearing the agent’s face again. He might be coming back to finish the job. _He’s gonna kill me,_ Walter thinks, and immediately rolls his eyes at himself. 

Just in case, he shoves a coin in his pocket. It’s never bad to keep an Inflatable Hug on you. 

Walter uses the table to lean against as he walks over to the door. It’s so far away, and he’s starting to regret having such a big house. It was his mom’s, yeah, but his mom is gone and Walter is crippled at the moment. 

The walk to Lance is painful. 

He opens the door cautiously with a hand on his back pocket. “Lance? What’s up?” he asks hoarsely. He hasn’t spoken a word for more than ten hours, and the crying probably hasn’t helped his vocal chords. 

Lance looks at him in satisfaction, clicks a button on a device in his hand, and his car windows open. Three birds zoom out toward Walter. Lovey flies into his hair, as usual, and Jeff and Crazy Eyes are doing frenzied circles around both Walter and Lance. 

He’s crying again, because why shouldn’t he? 

Lance grins at him, eyes sparkling. “I flew back to the C.W.F. and snagged them for you. They kind of did my car dirty, but it’s all good.” 

“That’s in the North Sea, dude. Thirty-six hundred miles away,” Walter croaks out, wiping his eyes as he snuggles close to Lovey. 

The agent smiles wider, obviously relishing in Walter’s reaction. “Worth it, though.” 

Walter seriously _cannot_ stop the tears – they just keep coming faster and faster and his eyes are so salty they’re starting to hurt. He shuffles toward Lance and carefully wraps his arms around his waist. The agent tenses up a bit and returns the embrace, mindful of Walter’s chest injuries. 

Walter hugs him tighter and says, “Thank you.” 

There’s silence, and Lance seems to struggle over his words before deciding on: “You too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all liked this! I actually learned quite a bit about HIV and how sexual abuse survivors go through the whole process in the medical system, so it was a bit of an educational experience writing this. I pointedly researched the symptoms to medications like zidovudine and lamivudine, so I hope I got things right when writing from Walter's P.O.V. 
> 
> Please leave comments, I love them.


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